Chris Larabee strolled leisurely up the main street of Four Corners, drinking in the sights and the sounds and the scents of the damp fall morning. This was his favorite time of day to be on duty, taking his turn minding the town that he had come to think of as home. The quiet stillness of those moments just following sunrise acted as a balm to the reformed gunslinger, and watching the town come to life reminded him of all that he had here in this dusty hamlet, this hamlet he called home. He had firmly believed that he would never feel that again about any place. How could he? Home used to mean something so different, so beautiful: a wife that he adored; a son over which the sun rose to lighten and brighten the wonders of every day, as the moon did the same. His baby boy's very own night light. A ranch full of horses, some cattle, a healthy creek, a abundant vegetable garden – his home. A place where he would watch over the births of his children, teach them things that he had been forced to learn the hard way, marking a path for them made easier by his life lessons, hold their hands through laughter and tears, and too soon have to let them go to lead lives of their own. It was to be a place where he would grow old with Sarah, a place to spoil his grandchildren, somewhere he would hold the hand of the woman who made life worth living. Hold her hand until the end of their days.

That was an old, buried dream of home now. It was bittersweet for the tough, former gunman to think of that time, but it no longer brought on the melancholy of the past that had wracked his soul, those feelings that, with the aid of a couple of bottles of whatever rotgut was handy, had so often devolved into a depression out of which his oldest friend nearly lacked the wherewithal to pull him back.

Or at least he was managing to avoid that spiral most weeks.

Larabee knew he'd turned a corner in his life, and he knew that these men, these six men who joined him in protecting this dry, dusty pinpoint on a map were the reasons why. He would never truly understand how it had happened, how men so different could grow to work as one, could grow to mean so much. That he had changed since losing his family there was no doubt. He still yearned for justice, would one day find out the reasons why his wife and son were taken from him. But he had learned that he could live without them. It was something that for so long he wasn't sure could be. He was grateful for these men. . .they had saved his life. They had helped him find his way, this new way to live, not just survive. They had watched his back in ways far beyond. . .in ways far, far better than anything they had done with their guns to protect him.

First of these men was Buck Wilmington, his oldest friend, a ladies' man with a heart of gold. Chris barely had to start the question before Buck would be there to offer his support with a fervent 'hell yeah, old dog'. Larabee knew that he owed this man more than he could ever repay, just as he knew that Buck would deny that Larabee owed him a thing. That heart of gold wasn't reserved just for the ladies.

The youngest of their team, J.D. Dunne had come from the East after burying his mother and dared to stand up to the gunslinger who most men had wisely learned to fear. Larabee had reluctantly accepted the kid's spirit, his fool-hardy and on occasion downright reckless bravado. Chris had decided that though the boy and his oldest friend may have seemed an unlikely pair, they would and did turn out to be as good a match as he could have asked. And he hadn't had to tell Buck what his job was with J.D.; Wilmington had taken to his role like a duck to water.

Nathan Jackson. They say that a special bond is sealed between two men when one saves the other's life. If that is so, then Chris could think of worse fates than to be joined for life with the Negro healer. Oftentimes Larabee found Jackson to be far too judgmental, though events of late told him he had no place to call a man to task on a fault that he had to shame-facedly admit he shared. Maybe they could work on that shared character flaw together. Nathan Jackson was a good and caring man, a former slave who had made a place for himself in this white man's world, and stood out as among the best in any crowd of men.

Josiah Sanchez, the town's 'holy man', was a contradiction. He was a thoughtful man, an educated man, yet a man whose family demons had haunted him all his life. Drink was his enemy when his memories threatened to overwhelm; he shared much with Chris Larabee in this regard. But Chris knew they were both trying hard to overcome their pain and their old, preferred ways of dealing with it. Josiah would finish the church – one day – and hopefully a congregation to fill it would be there as life in this rugged part of the country became less of a life or death existence and folks could take the time to contemplate what all they had to be thankful for. Chris knew that he was closer to making a decent-sized list of those good things himself than he'd been since losing his wife and son.

The quiet man from Texas was someone who Chris had nearly not had the chance to get to know. It could easily have been that Vin Tanner would have left for Tascosa after that first skirmish with Anderson at the Seminole village. But that first glance across a dusty street. . .that was all it took; Vin had told Chris that he knew that day that his life had been forever changed. They'd saved Nathan's life that day, and forged a friendship so fast, a friendship so unique: Brother? Best friend? Neither term seemed just the right fit. Chris understood that it was Vin's calm, level-head that grounded him when the bad elements shooting up the town, his own personal demons, or any number of other things threatened to light the fuse and unleash what everyone knew could turn on a dime to one of the meanest tempers in the territory.

Larabee stopped walking as he caught a glimpse of their seventh in the golden glow of this early morning sunrise. They'd become known as The Magnificent Seven, a dime novel moniker if there ever was one. They'd had a tough week in Four Corners. As though the territorial governor's visit hadn't complicated matters enough, they had also dealt with finding a dead assassin, the threat of other loss of life seeming imminent; the blood money; the attempt on Mary Travis' life. And Ezra.

Ezra.

Ezra Standish. A gambler. A con man. A man far too adept with his guns, with his horse, with explosives. Even in his dealings with children, who he seemed to understand and treat with respect, or the women of the town, who were forever charmed by Standish's silky drawl and fine manners. The fact was, there was very little that the flamboyantly-dressed Southerner didn't excel at.

And that list now included saving the life of the town's newspaper publisher, a woman all seven had come to care about and the town had learned to rely upon and grown to admire. Chris had heard from Buck about Maude Standish's latest missive to her son, her latest get rich quick scheme. Ezra appeared to have come to terms with his position as their seventh, as someone who seemed to have learned to live comfortably, if not wealthily, in his adopted home town. But all had not been well with the gambler, and Chris Larabee had played a large part in how things had taken a turn for the worse for their Southern friend.

The quiet morning was still just two short days removed from the moment Standish had taken the bullet intended for Mary Travis. It was not quite seven o'clock in the morning, and seeing the card sharp sitting in a chair on the boardwalk outside the saloon brought a frown to Chris' face. Nathan hadn't forced the injured man to stay in the clinic, but he had warned Ezra to take it easy, that the cracked rib would be painful, and that he would need to change the bandages on his arm and side regularly in order to ward off infection. Ezra didn't like mornings on a good day. Chris doubted that this day, less than forty-eight hours after being shot, qualified.

"Mr. Larabee."

"Ezra."

"How are you this fine morning?"

"Well, I don't know about fine. It's kind of cold this morning." Chris stepped up on the boardwalk and leaned against a post in front of the healing regulator.

"I suppose it is."

"What has you up so early?" Larabee already knew the answer. Despite Standish's insistence that he was 'right as rain' after Jackson had patched him up, Ezra had spent nearly the next twenty-four hours holed up in his room. Between the embarrassment of having the blood-drenched money found throughout the lining of his jacket, and the injuries, he'd not had much interest in getting out of bed. Nathan had seen to it that the bandages got changed and that food was sent up to him, but Inez had reported back that Ezra'd had little appetite. Standish would never be rude to a woman, but the Mexican bar manager had also noted that she'd barely been able to get a few words out of him, Ezra telling her that he needed the time for 'essential contemplation'.

Larabee shook that conversation from his mind as he shook his head, observing as one Ezra Standish no longer resembled anyone who could be called 'right as rain'. He leaned over and felt the healing gambler's forehead.

"Got a bit of a fever," Chris commented.

"Yes. It appears that ah have not yet suffered enough for mah sins," Ezra replied as he gently pushed Chris' hand away.

"See Nathan about it?"

"I am fine."

"'s not what I asked," Larabee said, his tone more than his words demanding an honest answer.

"Mistah Jackson, as I understand, was out very late providin' his soothing and apparently successful ministrations to our fair town's newest mother, Missus Annabeth Leland."

Chris frowned at the Southerner. Larabee had heard when he'd started his shift that the Leland's baby had come. The new born girl had arrived about one in the morning. How did Ezra known that?

"Have you been sleeping okay, Ezra?" Chris asked, surmising that he'd been spending time in his rocking chair rather than his bed, and heard the conversation out the open window.

"Of cour. . ." Standish was interrupted by a concerned, demanding Chris Larabee.

"Don't lie to me, Ezra."

Standish looked down the street one way, and then up the other. He started to rise, but Chris pushed him back into his seat with little effort, and surprising gentleness.

Ezra sighed. "I confess that these overnight hours have been plentiful with dark ruminations as opposed to pleasant dreams."

"Nathan would have whipped you up somethin' ta help ya sleep," Larabee answered, ignoring, for now, the deeper meaning in the reply. There would be a time for further discussion – and a need, as Larabee had learned one-by-one of the slights that Ezra had suffered at the hands of his friends over the last days leading up to the shooting.

"Yes, I have no doubt that our fine healer would have been overjoyed to compel one of his vile concoctions upon my person." Ezra rubbed his forehead before meeting Chris' worried eyes with his own pain-filled ones.

"Got a bad headache," Larabee stated. Who wouldn't after the pains Ezra had suffered through lately, both physical and emotional? Chris was working himself into a state, and he'd be releasing those frustrations on some serious ass-kicking of his friends, at another time. This time was a time for him to show Ezra that he had friends who cared about him.

"Blistering," Standish admitted.

"Why don't you go on back up to your room? I'll check in with Nathan, see if he has something he can do for you."

"Mr. Jackson deserves to sleep in. . ."

"Ezra, you know Nathan wouldn't want you to be sufferin' like this." And besides, Nathan as much as any of them owed Ezra. Chris had heard about the conversation Jackson and Dunne shared with Standish. Neither of them stood up for Ezra against the gambler's perception that Chris didn't trust him. Larabee hadn't helped matters by not explaining himself when he'd sent the money Josiah's way for safe-keeping. Ezra's hurt tone when he'd said he'd endured the torments of hell for the betterment of the town but could not abide his associates distrust? Chris had taken it as the well-deserved slap in the face that it was once he'd become aware of it. He'd wanted to talk to the gambler right then, but things were quickly spiraling out of control and he'd made a conscious decision to talk to Ezra about it later. Larabee regretted making that choice now. Even more, he remembered the harsh words he'd sent Ezra's way, asking if he'd let Jones out of his sight.

"Mr. Larabee, I fear 'sufferin' is a slight exaggeration," denying the use of the same word now in reference to his health whereas he'd been more than willing to accept suffering for his alleged sins. The gambler rose nonetheless at his cohort's suggestion, though staying upright didn't seem to be in the cards for the recently injured card player. He teetered toward the boardwalk's edge, a fortuitous landing in Chris Larabee's arms stopping him from suffering further injury. "Sorry," he uttered, his head held low, and close to touching Chris' chest, but he pulled up fast and short of allowing the contact, as though avoiding hot coals. "I. . .uh. . ." Ezra continued as he brought a shaky hand up to his head once more. "I'm sorry. . ."

"Now you can quit that, Ezra. Got nothin' to be sorry for, 'cept maybe bein' a stubborn cuss. If that was a crime, Judge'd have all seven of us locked up." Chris watched as Ezra didn't respond. He hadn't moved, either. The tall blond leaned down to get a better look at Ezra's face. He couldn't see what he wanted so he asked, "Ya all right?"

"Ah fear I may have misjudged my ability to return to my boudoir," Standish replied.

"No kidding." Larabee looked around. There weren't a lot of folks about yet. Down the road he finally spotted someone who could help. "Here, sit." Chris helped Ezra back in to his chair. "Take it easy. I'll be right back."

"Mr. Larabee. . ." the gambler protested before he was quickly interrupted.

"Shut up, Ezra. Stay put." He said it firmly, but he made sure Ezra could see his eyes, for in Chris Larabee's eyes he knew that Ezra Standish would see his concern.

Ezra sat back as he'd been told and closed his eyes. He really didn't feel well. He didn't understand what had happened. He'd felt fine. . .more than fine, after Nathan had looked him over. The bullet had been slowed down, remarkably, by first his arm, and then the larger, thicker wad of cash that he'd placed on that side in the lining of his jacket. The bullet ricocheted about some and hit a rib, cracking it, before taking a slight bounce away from bone and settling near the next rib. Jackson hadn't really had any trouble finding and removing it, though the bullet's path had done a fair amount of damage. But Ezra had spent some time with his fellow lawmen after, had a quick drink with them before accepting knowing nods from his brethren when he called it an early night and headed off to his room. But he'd been feeling progressively worse since then, culminating in last evening's long, sleepless hours. His head pounded, the heavy throbbing adding to the persistent ache in the whole left side of his upper body.

"Ezra?"

Standish hadn't realized that he'd drifted off. He raised pain-glazed eyes to see Chris Larabee joined by Vin Tanner kneeling before him.

"Shit. Come on." Ezra felt Larabee's strong arms lift him up from his uninjured right side, Vin's gentle touch managing the same on the left. He felt kind of numb, which was better than the aches and pains and sleeplessness of the past twenty-four hours, though he doubted Nathan Jackson would agree that it was a good thing. Upon further reflection, Ezra figured it was a pretty bad sign. He looked up to his strong, able assistants.

"Mr. Jackson will not be happy with me."

"Prob'ly not, pard," Vin agreed.

"It did not seem. . .appropriate to trouble him, with Missus Leland. . ."

Chris Larabee practically crackled with anger, though he kept his voice level and calm, Vin's influence, no doubt, though the vivid blue eyes that were that very second sending him a warning to handle the gambler carefully would have been a sign that even a novice tracker couldn't miss. "Ezra, I know your head is still all messed up, what with the money and how you were feelin'. . .and damned Josiah. . ." Vin rolled his eyes and held on as his injured friend moved to defend the preacher.

"Mr. Larabee, ah will not allow you to denigrate. . ."

"Stop it, Ezra. We'll talk later. Let's get you up to bed," Larabee pleaded softly, rendering the card sharp speechless with the quiet concern. "Mrs. Potter is fetchin' Nathan." Chris and Vin helped the faltering Standish up the staircase to his room. Larabee opened the door and then helped Tanner set the exhausted and pained man on the edge of the feather bed.

"Chris," Ezra panted, tired from the effort to get back to his room, but insisting that he have his say. "Ah make mah own decisions. Ah accept mah fault. Ah accept mah medicine." It would have brought on a laugh, considering how much the man fought Nathan where medicines were concerned, if it wasn't such a serious thing, what had happened, what they'd done.

"And you heard some shit from just about all of us that, well, it wasn't right. And I'm sorry about my part in that, Ezra, especially if it led to the decision you made to leave. I never meant for any rift that we may have had to make you feel you had no choice but to leave."

"But you weren't wrong, Mr. Larabee."

"I think maybe I was. I think maybe if I'd trusted you, things might've. . .hell, they would have gone differently."

"I don't know how you can know that," Ezra countered, "when ah cannot even convince myself of that truth." Standish recalled what he'd said to Josiah in the church, 'I always hoped that my friends knew me better.'

Vin stood back and watched as Chris handled their injured friend. Larabee shook his head as he started to unbutton Standish's vest. "Josiah told me what he said to ya." Ezra looked Chris in the eyes, and then turned his head, ashamed that those private thoughts had made it to their leader. "Ezra, what I'm tryin' ta say is that I think maybe you need to look at yourself long and hard. . ."

"I fear, what is the sayin', that train has already pulled from the station."

"And?" Chris asked as he removed the vest and then knelt down to work on the boots.

"I am unimpressed with the reflection."

"Hell, Ezra. Mary and half the town think you're a hero," Vin said.

"You saved her life," Chris added. "You stepped in front of her knowing that you risked dying to do it. That's a pretty selfless act for someone so unimpressive. I think we all know what kind of a man you are," Chris added, using Josiah's question as answer to anyone's concern as to the quality of the man sitting before him.

A knock on the door stalled the conversation.

"Come in," all three said together. The men laughed lightly, nervously, as Nathan Jackson made his way into the room. He headed straight to the Southerner's side, sitting beside him on the bed.

"What's goin' on, Ezra?" he asked, the warm, deep voice soothing with its honest, simple concern.

"Ah don't actually know, Nathan." Ezra's use of the healer's given name, as rare as it was, was an obvious sign to Jackson that Standish was feeling pretty poorly. "Since restin' mah head upon mah down pilla that first night, I have been feelin' ever more ill. It vexes, as I was feelin'. . ."

"Yeah, yeah. Right as rain," Nathan chastised, throwing Ezra's words back at him. "I'm thinkin' maybe you weren't being altogether honest. . ."

"Come on, Nate," Vin defended his sick friend. Nathan had never met someone who spoke so much by saying so few words. Jackson nodded his head, accepting that he may have made an improper assumption. He turned back to address Ezra.

"All right, but you shoulda sent for me," Nathan challenged.

"You were otherwise and far more significantly occupied."

"I would have come to check on you. You know that." Nathan sounded hurt that the gambler hadn't bothered to send for him.

"I. . .I do, I suppose, know that. My sincerest apologies, Mr. Jackson."

"Forget about that. Just tell him what's wrong with ya," Chris said, angry at both men now. Ezra may not have trusted them based on actions he'd taken over the course of the last days, but that the other six of them missed the signs? Larabee would be damned if he'd let that rest. That wrong would be righted. Josiah, as it turns out, had a lot to answer for, no matter that Ezra jumped to defend him earlier. And Chris knew he'd be slapping Buck over his infatuation with the governor's aide, at least insomuch as it kept him from helping to watch Ezra's back.

And what the hell was Nathan thinking just now, trying to make the man feel guilty, as though the weight of the guilt that he already carried wasn't already breaking the man's back.

Nearly an hour later found Nathan collecting his gear and Ezra's eyes heavy with sleep. Jackson met Larabee at the door.

"He's gonna be okay?" Chris asked.

"Yeah. He's worn out is all. Got hisself so worked up he couldn't sleep. He needs ta sleep. And he ain't hardly had nothin' to eat since before the shooting. You can see that bowl of soup Inez sent up and the tea I gave him was all it took to knock him out. 'Right as rain' my a. . ."

"That's enough, Nathan." Chris Larabee's voice was soft but no less severe than if he'd been yelling at the top of his lungs. "I don't want to hear that kind of shit anymore. He's one of us. He has proved over and over again that he will be there for this town, for these people, and that he will be at our backs when we need him. We owe him the courtesy of trust. Trust in the understandin' that we know he will be there. And trust in other ways." Nathan started to protest. "I ain't talkin' about money, Nate. And the one thing that he is going to learn, above all else from this whole, miserable situation, is that he can trust that we will be there for him. He nearly left, walked out, because he didn't feel we trusted him, when in every way but one, we all trust him as much as any one of us. And that one way that we don't is so low on the totem pole, so unimportant it nearly disappears in comparison to what really matters." Chris stared at Nathan as the healer continued to stand, arms folded across his chest, challenging. Larabee shook his head and asked, "Do you want him to leave?"

"No," Nathan admitted readily. He didn't need to think on it, the answer was an easy one to give.

"He would risk his life for you, for me, for an awful lot of people. Don't you think it's time we made the effort to make sure he knows we know that, that we value that? That we value him as much as he shows how much we all mean to him?" It was pretty obvious that Ezra Standish held them all in high regard. . .why else would a man like that stay in a place like this?

"Yes. Yes I do."

"Good." Chris patted Nathan's shoulder. "Thanks. Go get some sleep."

"You stayin'?"

"For a while."

"All right. You want me to head to the jail?" Nathan offered.

"Mrs. Potter got J.D. to take over for me."

"All right. See you later."

Larabee shut the door and turned around to find tired eyes watching him.

"Thought you were sleepin'."

"Heard speechifyin' goin' on the likes of which ah haven't experienced since headin' west from St. Louis." Larabee smiled at the comparison. "Lots of blowhards in the big city." Ezra watched as the smile turned quickly to a frown. "Thought my hearin' was failin' me when I heard those words comin' from your lips."

"Shut up, Ezra."

"No, I don't believe ah will, not before ah have mah say." Ezra yawned widely, his accent becoming thicker as his exhaustion took the lead in the race against his will.

"Looks to me there should be more sleep goin' on and less talk."

"Indeed. But ah do need to say. . ." Standish yawned large again. "Apologies, sir."

"Go to sleep, will ya?"

"Not until ah say what ah have to say," Ezra insisted.

"Then say it."

"Thank you, Mr. Larabee."

Chris snorted and then nodded his acceptance of the gratitude coming from this most frustrating member of his team. Ezra nodded back as his eyes closed, seemingly for good.

"Get some rest."

"Ah b'lieve ah have no otha choice," Ezra slurred, his accent even muddier as he finally fell asleep.

Chris took his place in Ezra's comfortable rocking chair. He watched and listened as his friend fell into a hopefully healing slumber. He also hoped that Ezra Standish would learn that the choices he made needed to be considered against their impact to others. Larabee knew that it was a consideration that Standish never had to worry about before. It would be something he would need to learn, kind of like riding a bike, or learning a new card trick. Or the way Chris had learned to live anew. Larabee knew this dog could learn new tricks; Ezra always had something new up his sleeve. Besides, Chris had gotten used to having this annoyingly complicated and forever surprising man around. He and Vin, Josiah and Nathan, Buck and J.D. – they had work to do to make sure that the next time the gambler had this choice before him, that Ezra would know that there really was no choice.

Or rather, that there was just one choice.

The End.